Author's Note: I am not a native speaker, so mistakes are unavoidable, I guess.
If you see any, let me know!

*The forest is on fire.
That's the first thought passing through her panicked mind. Heart racing, breath uneven, eyes trembling and watering under the strain of not blinking, sword and shield rattling, clutched in gauntleted hands.

A lighting cracked overhead, illuminating the scene around her, one she'd lived countless times before. Chilling raindrops tinging on metal, dogs barking in anticipation, uncertain feet sliding on mud. The wind that blew through the visor of her helmet carried the smell of wet soil, fur, sweat, and incense; it reeked of desperation. Yet the only thing she saw, over the sea of helmeted heads in front of her, was the burning forest. Concentrated on the flames as she was, she began to see clearly despite the distance. The forest was not on fire; it was hundreds, maybe thousands, of torches moving towards her, accompanied by the guttural grunting of beings that shouldn't be...

This is how it ends.
She heard the first arrows being shot somewhere ahead, then the barks, and the high-pitched cries of gravely injured animals.
"FOR FERELDEN!" the King cried, his voice penetrating her gut like a tangible thing. Her blade and shield clattered on the pebbled ground as her hands clutched her abdomen to stop the bleeding, but the gauntlet she raised in front of her eyes came up clean. In shock, she looked back up towards the screams just as the battle was beginning and the rain was still falling. A few drops slid on her cheek and touched her dry lips, seeping into the cracked skin and stinging with their saltiness. Tears from the sky.
The Maker is grieving, for He is abandoning His children today.

The sky roared with fire and stone, the earth rumbled under the weight of the living and the dead and those in-between. The beacon atop the Tower of Ishal burst into flame along with every last shred of hope in her heart.
N-No...
"Pull out! All of you, let's move!" the Captain's voice echoed inside her head, canceling every other sound, leaving a dizzying ringing in its wake.
No.
Everyone around her was moving and she was desperately trying to stay still, to pick up her weapon, to run and fight, to defy the fear and the lingering pain in her gut and stand up to the Darkness, the Death, the Blight, but the bodies surrounding her became a current she couldn't possibly resist.
NO!
She tried to scream but nothing came out of her mouth but a strangled sob.
NNOOOO!*

"...ooooo!" She woke up with a violent convulsion, drenched in sweat and tears. An angry scream escaped her lips involuntarily and she punched the straw mattress beneath her with all her rage-induced strength. "It's been TEN. FUCKING. YEARS. for fuck's sake!", she yelled crumpling her wool blanket and hurling it at the wooden wall in front of her, from where it landed on the scratched floorboards. This will be a makerfucking PERFECT day now, won't it?, she thought as she collapsed back on her bed covering her face with trembling hands.

ooOoo

Haven used to be a quiet place, that's precisely why Jo chose to move there when the restoration began, six years ago. A place only for the pilgrims on their way to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and for the few people, like herself, wanting to accommodate their needs for food, sleep, and mild entertainment. She had packed her meager belongings and left the village of Redcliffe which was rapidly attracting people from all around the Hinterlands still searching for a safe and stable place to go after the Blight. She knew what it meant to try and build something out of nothing, so she didn't blame them, but it was getting too crowded for her sanity, too much like Denerim. And so she had found herself on the road again, sleeping in a tent near the lake just outside Haven, finally building her own house and her own earthen oven, like the one she used to use in Redcliffe, only smaller; the people were fewer, it was only logical.

So, Haven used to be a quiet place. But not anymore. Now there is a hole in the sky spitting demons, there is a raging war between mages and templars, and the place is bustling with soldiers and all sorts of merchants and craftsmen. Jo used to be the former once, but since the Blight was over she had chosen to be the latter. She was Haven's only baker, former apprentice-turned-assistant of the renowned Milton Fuchs, cook of the 'Gull and Lantern' back in Redcliffe. That's why she was now running towards the 'Singing Maiden' with four hot loaves of bread, two under each armpit.

"You took your time today," Flissa called out to her from behind the counter as she entered the already cramped tavern, opening the door with a foot.

"Don't get me started..." Jo scoffed, handing Flissa the loaves. "Be careful, they're hot!", she cautioned her, earning herself a playful wink from Flissa, which she readily ignored looking disinterestedly around the room. "What happened today anyway? The place is too busy for this early in the morning."

The barkeep's face lit up. "Haven't you heard?" she asked excitedly. "They found who did it!"

"Who did what?"

"Who killed the Divine! She's some kind of uppity Free Marcher broad. She's the only one who survived, apparently."

"And that's all the evidence they have?" Jo asked with barely veiled indifference. Flissa nodded. "Well, I suppose that's the only evidence they would ever need."

"How can you be so apathetic?" asked the barmaid, her eyes wide with incredulity.

"That's easy, I simply don't care."

"Wha-? I can't believe you sometimes! How can you not care?" Flissa shouted. Most of the tables were occupied by that time, and some of the patrons turned to look at the two women with blatant curiosity.

Jo passed her deep brown eyes around the tavern, finally turning back to Flissa, and then replied, voice calm and cold, like the lake outside the walls of Haven. "I don't care because it doesn't matter. I don't matter. You don't matter. Very few people actually do. And it's them that will tell us what to do, how, and when, if they are decent enough to even remember us that is."

"How can you say such things?!" cried one of the patrons, a middle-aged templar, with rough skin and kind eyes. "This is precisely the time to care young lady! If everyone thought like you do, nothing would ever get done! The whole world would have perished in the first Blight, or even before that."

Jo chuckled bitterly. "Would that have been that bad?.." She straightened after watching his surprised face. "Just stop asking me how I can be the way I am. I'm not hurting anyone, I'm only voicing an unpopular opinion. And it still doesn't matter, that's what I'm saying! Let me ask you in return, how can you be so blind?" she asked, the accusation making her voice tremble and her eyes sting. "Hundreds died at the Conclave – was that really hundreds? Thousands? - I don't even know how many. But all everyone is talking about – at least everyone that hasn't lost someone of their own there – all they are talking about is that the Divine died. Only one person within the countless lost. One important person. So, if you are just a baker, just an innkeeper or a barmaid, or just a templar, there's no need to actually care. We merely follow orders, do our jobs, and wait for the time to leave this world, most of us hoping it will be later, rather than sooner. No one listens to people like us, no one knows or cares about who we are and what we think, and no one will remember our names after we die." The whole tavern was dead silent and looking at Jo. Her voice was even calmer than before, even more distant as she concluded: "This is why I don't care."

The templar looked ready to reply, to tell her what she'd heard so many times before. He opened his mouth, but before he could utter a single word, a blinding white flash flooded the room, followed by an immense thud, like the end of a thunderclap, and a sudden burst of wind that rattled the tavern from its foundation. Light leaked through every door, every window, every crack between the wooden boards of the hastily built walls and dust filled the air. Everything else forgotten, all the patrons along with Flissa rushed out of the tavern to see what the source of this commotion had been and were greeted by the most unexpected and yet most hoped for sight, the Breach was not moving anymore, it was like it had frozen in time. It was still emitting the same sickly green light, but it was decidedly less frightening, everyone agreed.

Jo didn't even look up when she exited the tavern. She didn't talk to anyone, she didn't cheer like the rest of them, her only purpose was to go home and get back to work. That is why she avoided the crowded path in front of the tavern, and the packed entrance of the Chantry, leaving only the empty spaces between the tents behind the 'Singing Maiden' as a route home. As she passed in front of the requisition table, she felt a strong hand fall on her shoulder, hindering her return to the much coveted quiet and normalcy of her humble abode.

"For how much longer will you hide from your duty?" a stern steely voice came from behind her.

"My duty? Are you serious?" Jo turned to face the person addressing her, knowing full well not only who that person was, but also how the conversation would pan out - it has happened many times since she'd come to Haven, and a few even before that.

"You know I am. And you know I am right. You are a soldier! Act like one!" Threnn yelled at her, her tone authoritative, as if she was giving Jo an order.

"In case you have forgotten, I am a baker now, and I have been for the last six years. And keep your orders for those who are obliged to obey them. As for duty... Is that what you are doing here? Fulfilling your duty as a soldier?" she asked bitingly, too tired to be civil.

Threnn flushed, from shame or anger Jo couldn't tell – she could guess though. "I am doing what is asked of me to aid my country in th-".

"Spare me," Jo huffed. "You were an annoyance, an inconvenience to the king and this was the only way he could get rid of you without causing unrest. So do us all a favor and stop deluding yourself, you are no more of a soldier than I am." After pausing for a retort that never came, Jo continued: "If that is all, I have to get back to work, and so do you, these forms won't fill themselves." As she turned to leave she tried, but couldn't contain the little smirk that lifted one corner of her wide mouth at the sight of her former comrade opening and closing her mouth in search for words, like a fish on land in search for water.

ooOoo

The light coming in through her window had slowly faded from bright orange to muted fuchsia to a pale gray blue. The embers in the oven were already getting cold and Jo had lit a couple of candles to prepare her dinner. Her home was small, just one room, but it was all she needed. A simple wooden bed with a straw mattress and wool blankets, a chest for her clothes and linen, a large heavy table in the middle of the room to serve as her working bench, dining table and desk, three sturdy chairs for whenever anyone visiting actually stayed long enough to require sitting (which was not that often), a larder for the bare essentials for her baking and daily sustenance, and a small casket of ale, and a rickety bookcase with a few dusty tomes that doubled as a cupboard. Almost everything in here, she'd built herself, she only ever bought anything if she absolutely had to. Her self-reliance was a lesson she'd learned the hard way, and it was what had eventually kept her going all these years. It was the one thing that kept her sane.

She was sitting at her table, an earthenware mug half-full with bitter old ale in her hand, when someone knocked on the door behind her.

"Come in," she yelled over her shoulder and took another swig from her mug.

Adan stepped in, his robes dragging on the floor. "You started early," he said as he walked over to the bookcase and took another mug for himself. He filled it from the small cask in the larder before he sat at the chair opposite Jo.

"Today was a special day," she said and raised her mug. Jo was not used to anyone feeling so much at ease inside her own house, but Adan was – if not a friend – not a stranger, and she actually wouldn't mind some tolerable company tonight.

"Tell me about it," he sighed, clinked his mug with hers and downed half its contents in one long pull.

Jo snorted but eyed him more carefully. The signs of exhaustion were apparent in his already weathered face, his usually well-kept goatee was less defined due to the shadow around it, his eyes were sunken, dark purple circles were showing under them, and he reeked of stale sweat and blood and other fluids Jo would rather not think of soiling her chair. "You look worse than I feel, that's for sure. What happened?" she asked, almost concerned.

His clever eyes met hers and she saw the disbelief in them. "I know you avoid gossip like the Blight, and that's commendable, but you can't tell me you haven't heard about the Herald," he said, rolling the last word mockingly in his mouth. Jo simply shook her head and he continued, sighing one more time. "The prisoner, the one who they thought killed the Divine?" Jo nodded. "She's apparently our savior now, the Herald of Andraste herself. Isn't it amazing how quickly the tables turn?" he chuckled shaking his shaved head.

What happened then was something quite uncommon, Jo found herself with nothing more to say other than: "What?"

"You heard me. This lady, Lady Trevelyan, a member of Ostwick's nobility, was quite recently proclaimed the Herald of Andraste." As Jo was still too dumbfounded to give any reply, he continued with the whole story, after a long exhalation. "As you must know, she was the only survivor, and believed to have been the instigator of the whole incident at the Conclave. And here the madness begins," he smiled ruefully. "Her right hand is glowing, emanating the same bright green light as the rifts and – and she can close them. You saw how the Breach stopped growing?" Jo nodded once more. "She did that! She is not a mage! Yet she stopped it, using that thing!" he exclaimed. "In my whole career – in my whole life – I've never seen anything like that." He drank once more from his rapidly emptying cup. "People say that this... mark on her hand is a sign from the Maker. They say they saw Andraste herself deliver her from the Fade." Here he stopped, staring intently at the bottom of his mug.

"And... you believe that?" Jo asked with genuine exasperation. "You actually believe that's what happened? You didn't seem the type... Come now Adan, you are a man of reason! How can you believe such fantasies?"

The apothecary run his hands over his face and looked at her. He looked defeated. "That's the thing, I don't know what to believe. I saw the mark with my own eyes. I know that I couldn't save her by myself. Even if I was a healer I couldn't have! If Solas wasn't there... I do not claim to know exactly how magic works, but I've seen many procedures, and this one was different. He did things I've never witnessed before, he instructed me to do things I've never done before, and... I don't know, I simply don't know." He was talking too fast by now, his voice had grown louder by the minute. After a small pause he went on in a more subdued tone. "She is a simple woman. She looks like a simple woman, she smells like a simple woman, I've been told she talks like one as well. Or maybe she was a simple woman, and whatever happened at the Conclave changed her..." he looked somewhere past her with vacant eyes. He blinked once. "Anyway, whatever she was, whatever she is – it's not that I don't know that bothers me, it's that I can't even begin to explain it. Maybe Taigen would know what to do, what to think, but I don't. I don't." His face fell in his open palms as he exhaled, elbows propped against the rough surface of the table.

Jo was looking at him, unable to form any kind of response – reassuring or otherwise. He was just sitting there, almost shaking, looking shocked to his core. Adan, a man that was usually so acerbic, brash, and rational, was now scared. And that, more than the demons, even more than the hole in the sky, scared her in return.

They sat there in silence, until, several minutes later, he stood up and, with a mumbled thanks and an apology, left as suddenly as he had come, leaving Jo alone once again. Her thoughts were muddled, filled with memories of the Blight and how terrified she'd been, not when she first heard rumors about it, or when validated news of multiple deaths reached Denerim, but when she finally realized the role she herself had to play in all this, when she realized she was going to be one of the many that might die fighting, and not fleeing. There is something inherently bloodcurdling in knowing that your fate lies in your hands and, subsequently, in your possible mistakes, and not in the acts of an uncontrollable external force. That is what, she believed, Adan was experiencing, for the first time in a very long time he felt he was actually playing an active part in shaping the things to come. By having to search for answers, by helping a woman that people said was their savior, by finally accepting his role in aiding what they were trying to built here after the sky tore.

They. Who were they?
People she barely knew that had come and assumed positions of power without asking, without any sanction even. Not from the King, not from the Chantry, definitely not from the Divine... Although two of them were her Hands. The truth of the matter was, no one even questioned their authority, or their validity. But these were thoughts she would never speak outside her own mind – what would be the point after all? Returning to the more distancing mindset she was used to, she gradually got over the terror that almost overcame her during their conversation with the apothecary. The reassuring thought that she didn't matter, calmed her. It enveloped her in a familiar, safe, numbing cocoon that simultaneously protected and separated. Let them make plans and decisions, let them save the world, while I make bread.

That night, as Jo descended into a blessedly dreamless sleep, what warmed her more than her heavy wool blankets, were the comforting thoughts of sweet insignificance.